


just like a rainbow, you know you set me free

by birds96



Category: Sing Street (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Brief mentions of child abuse, College AU, M/M, mild drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25215316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birds96/pseuds/birds96
Summary: Honoring the wishes of his mother, Eamon travels to London to attend university. There, he crosses paths with Conor Lawlor, a fellow Dubliner who moved to London to pursue music. Conor's cool, sure of himself, and has already amassed a small fanbase in London. Although he's supposed to be focusing on his studies, Eamon finds himself captivated by Conor and his music.
Relationships: Eamon/Conor Lawlor
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this was a wip for a really long time and i decided to open it back up! i have several chapters written already, so more to come soon!  
> i have no concept of how university works in England and i don't care to do research on it for the sake of a fun fic, so if the descriptions of Eamon's university experience sound very American, that's why. also, i am, again, an American, so i don't know the ins-and-outs of Irish slang. if it seems inconsistent, c'est la raison. 
> 
> title of fic from the lyrics of "just can't get enough" from the sing street OBS

Ever since his dad went away, Eamon had been the man of the house. This meant picking up more of the housework, working at the supermarket on the weekends to help his mother pay bills, and growing up faster than all of his peers. He took on this role with no complaints; after all, it was preferable to his dad still being around to beat the shit out of him. 

Very early during his childhood, his mother had set the expectation that he would go to university and get a “proper” job. Translation: Eamon would not, under any circumstances, follow in his dad’s footsteps. Sometimes, when Eamon was home alone and could play guitar as loud as he wanted, he’d briefly entertain the idea that he would be able to pursue a career in music. Despite his shyness, he knew he could do it; he was a talented musician, often told by his music teachers that he was “just shy of a prodigy.” Of course, he also wasn’t delusional. The chances of him actually getting famous were nonexistent, especially in Ireland. But he didn’t want to be famous, he just wanted to play music. 

As much as it upset him to know that he couldn’t pursue the one thing he was actually interested in, he respected his mother’s wishes that he attend university. Not only was his dad a musician, making the career path inexcusable in the eyes of his mother, but it was also a wildly unpredictable and unstable career. His mother struggled every month to pay the rent and keep the lights on; he couldn’t, in good conscience, pursue a career that could result in him being just as financially unstable when she worked so hard to support him. 

So he did what he was expected to do: got good grades, applied to university, and when he received his acceptance letter to the University of London his mother was over the moon. Eamon, on the other hand, felt defeated, resigned to a life that he didn’t particularly want but knew was what was expected of him. Whereas another teenager his age would revel at the prospect of leaving home, finally gaining independence, and no longer being under the strict control of their parents, Eamon felt dread. 

So, he left Dublin behind with minimal complaints. A week before classes began, he was on a plane with a one-way ticket to London with only his suitcase, backpack, and guitar (the one concession his mother made when Eamon agreed to enroll at the university). Both his suitcase and backpack were stuffed to the brim with as many of his belongings as he could possibly fit. The rest of his instruments and the rabbits stay behind with his mum, although he expected that she would find a smaller, more affordable place to live and ultimately sell all of his dad’s old instruments. She might even sell the rabbits if she gets sick of taking care of them. Although he was unhappy, he couldn't complain—especially since his mum was shelling out God knows how much money for his tuition. An education, his mother would always tell him, is a privilege that not everyone is afforded, and he supposed he needed to take advantage of it.

All things considered, London was fine. The city was large, especially compared to Dublin, so there was no lack of things for Eamon to do and see. Eamon’s roommate was a small, red-haired boy named Darren who was also from Dublin. Eamon suspected that the school matched them together on account that they were both Dubliners, but it was actually nice to have someone who had a similar background to him as a roommate—even if Darren was a little weird at times. 

The first few weeks of classes passed by uneventfully. Eamon’s classes weren't difficult, but they weren't exactly interesting, either. He found himself spending most afternoons at a café called Hardy’s, which was tucked into a quiet corner of London, away from the high energy of the campus and downtown London. The sheer mass of students on campus made it impossible to find a place to work at the library, so Hardy’s offered an alternative. Plus, Hardy’s allowed him some solitude and the baristas played good music. 

It was a Friday night when Eamon first saw him. Although Hardy’s didn’t see a great deal of business during the week— mostly just regulars who popped in for a drink then left—Friday nights, Eamon discovered, were another story. The café had a small stage set up in the south corner of the building, and Eamon had assumed that it was never used for anything as he’d never seen anyone up there before. 

Eamon had been sat in the café for several hours while attempting to finish a paper, but he didn’t care for the book he was meant to be writing about and certainly didn’t care about the assignment. It was this disinterest that allowed him to be distracted by a boy who was on stage setting up a stool he’d stolen from another part of the café. Beside him was an old, busted up guitar case. Although Eamon hadn’t noticed before, a sizable group of people were gathering in the café, pulling up chairs and stools around the stage. 

“Are you using that chair?” A girl asked Eamon, pointing at the unused chair across from him. She looked about sixteen and was wearing entirely too much blush. 

“You can take it,” Eamon replied. “Who is this guy?” He added quickly before she walked away. 

“Huh?” The girl asked. Eamon gestured toward the stage, at the boy who was opening the guitar case and throwing the guitar strap over his shoulder. “Oh! That’s Conor Lawlor. He’s here every Friday night. He’s damn good, so people always come out to watch him. Gained a bit of a local reputation, I suppose.” The girl smiled at Eamon before carrying the chair toward the stage. 

Eamon couldn't help but notice that most of the audience were girls, and it annoyed him a bit. He suspected that maybe they were all just there because Conor was attractive and not because he was actually any good.

“Hi, everyone, my name is Conor if you don’t already know,” Conor said while settling down onto his stool. Eamon immediately perked up at the Irish accent.

“This one is called Train Cars,” Conor said before jumping into the song that, much to the surprise of Eamon, wasn't half bad. Conor carried himself with such a sense of confidence that made Eamon immediately understand why he had a regular audience every Friday night.

When the song ended, the audience clapped politely. A girl toward the front of the crowd requested a song and Conor honored the request, immediately jumping into a faster and more upbeat song. Eamon had never heard any of the songs before and he wasn't sure if it was because he was unfamiliar with the London music scene or if they were originals. 

During the set, Eamon contemplated speaking to Conor after the performance. He imagined various scenarios where he would walk up to Conor: in one he strikes up a conversation about the model of guitar that Conor’s using, in another he asks Conor what part of Ireland he’s from and why he left. He was captivated by the Irish boy but ultimately his shyness got the best of him and he packed up his books and left the café before the final song had ended.


	2. i go out of my head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes the tense changes from past to present between this chapter and the last -- what about it ?

Throughout the following week, Eamon can’t stop thinking about Conor and his songs. He often finds himself zoning out in class and imagines himself speaking to Conor. He imagines that they immediately click, that they both joke about how dreadfully boring Ireland is and how much more there is to do and see in London. Then he gets embarrassed and shakes away the daydream; after all, he doesn’t even know this guy and he’s imagining entire conversations with him. For all he knows, Conor could be an asshole. Many musicians are full of themselves, convinced they’re more talented and important than they actually are—Conor could be one of that lot. 

So, he tries to forget about Conor and focus on his coursework, but as the weeks go by, he finds it harder and harder to maintain focus. He’s doing all right; his grades aren’t horrible and he manages to show up to class (usually) but it’s taking a lot out of him and, frankly, he misses home. He misses his rabbits, his mum pounding on the wall when he plays music too loud, and even the quiet lull of Dublin at night. 

It’s three Fridays later when Eamon finds himself at Hardy’s again. He tells himself that it’s just a coincidence that he’s still there doing homework at 6:45, fifteen minutes before Conor’s scheduled weekly performance, but he knows he’s been deliberately working as slow as possible so that he has a reason to still be there when the mysterious boy arrives. 

Conor arrives at 6:55, greets the baristas and tells some joke that makes them all laugh and heads for the stage. Every seat in the cafe is already claimed by the time he arrives, and expectant fans drag their seats closer to the stage when Conor begins setting up. Eamon fiercely tries to keep his eyes locked on his assignment to feign disinterest but abandons any hope of doing so the moment that Conor begins talking animatedly to a few members of the audience. Eamon can’t make out exactly what he’s saying, but it’s clear that Conor has rapport with the people. Eamon wonders if they are friends or if Conor was just this outgoing and charming around everyone he meets. 

Eamon can’t help but think how much Conor looks like a natural-born rockstar when he brushes his hair out of his face and laughs, sat on his stool with his well-worn guitar sat on his lap. Desperately, Eamon wants to look that cool, to exude that kind of confidence.

“This one is called Boys and Girls,” Conor says, before jumping into his first song. Eamon is painfully attentive during the entire 35-minute set that consists of a couple covers that Eamon recognizes and many more songs that he does not. By the time Conor is thanking the small audience for their attention and the crowd begins to trickle out of the café, Eamon has worked out exactly what he is going to say to Conor. 

Which was all well and good but, by the time Eamon’s nervous legs carry him up to the stage where Conor is putting his guitar back in the case, he’s forgotten the entire script he’d prepared in his head. 

So a simple “hey,” is what he decides on to get Conor’s attention. Conor turns around and smiles effortlessly. 

“Hey, enjoy the show from all the way over there?” Conor asks, gesturing to the back of the café where Eamon’s school books are still scattered across his table. It hadn’t occurred to Eamon until now that Conor might have noticed him, sitting alone in the back of the café. He feels himself flush with embarrassment. 

“Um, I was already back there working so I didn’t want to…” Eamon trailed off, feeling incredibly awkward and unsure how to carry on with the conversation, but it didn’t matter because Conor’s eyes flashed with recognition and he grinned widely. 

“You’re from Ireland?” 

A wave of relief came over Eamon. “Yeah, yeah, Dublin,” he replies. 

“Me too!” Conor said excitedly. “Sorry—it’s been a while since I’ve spoken to a fellow Dubliner. I guess there’s more and more of us coming over here, but still. It’s really nice to hear a familiar accent.” 

Eamon shook his head. “It’s fine, I just, uh, wanted to tell you that I thought you were really good up there. Do you um, write your own stuff?” 

Conor nods. “I do, yeah. I’m not the best with lyrics, but we all have to start somewhere, right?” He kneels down to pick up his guitar case. “Do you write music too?” 

Eamon isn’t sure if Conor is asking because he’s genuinely interested or if he’s just trying to be polite. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose—a nervous habit. “Um, sometimes. Not lately, since I had to leave most of my instruments back home when I came over here for school.” 

“What do you play?” Conor asks. 

“Um, guitar, piano, a bit of percussion, bass… prettymuch anything that my da’ had laying around the house.” 

“Wow!” Conor says, impressed. “Your father is a musician?” 

“Sort of,” Eamon replies, “It’s a little complicated.” 

Conor nods and drops the topic with ease, something Eamon is grateful for. “Anyway, my name is Conor.” He holds his free hand out to Eamon, and Eamon tentatively takes it. 

“Eamon.” Eamon’s not sure where to go from here. He, admittedly, didn’t even really think that he’d work up the courage to speak to Conor at all. “Well, I uh- guess I should get back to work,” he says, gesturing back towards his table. “It was nice meeting you, Conor. I guess I’ll see you around.” 

Conor nods. “Yeah, yeah, see you around.”

Eamon isn’t sure if he imagines it, but Conor looks as if he wants to say something else but decides against it.


	3. this is your life

Midterm exams approach quickly, and Eamon is suddenly drowning in essays and study guides. The weeks go by in a blur as Eamon struggles to keep up with mountains of readings. When he’s not in class, he’s holed up in his room or at Hardy’s studying. Darren tells him that he’s working too hard, but Eamon would rather be preoccupied with homework and readings than have time to think about how he has three and a half years left of this.

Eamon’s sat in a booth at Hardy’s on a Saturday afternoon, head propped up by his hand. He’s fairly certain he’s reread the same page four times and retained exactly nothing and he’s just about ready to give up and move on to his next assignment when he realizes that he hears someone saying his name, repeatedly.

He looks up, and Conor Lawlor is standing in front of him with a smile on his face.

“Conor.”

“Hey, mate. I said your name about fifteen times before you looked up. Good book?”

Eamon shakes his head, “No, it’s pretty shit, actually.” He flips the open book upside down to hold his place. He looks Conor up and down—no guitar in sight. “What are you doing here?”

“Just came in for some coffee on my break,” he says and holds up the mug in his hand. “I saw you over here and thought I’d say hello. Mind if I sit down? I don’t want to interrupt your study session or anything.”

Eamon shakes his head and gestures to the seat across from him. “No, please, I need a break.” He’s self-conscious suddenly, realizing that he probably looks like a mess, wearing a sweatshirt that he’s possibly been wearing for three days straight and sporting a head of unkempt hair. He runs his fingers through his hair, hoping that it makes him look somewhat more presentable.

Conor settles down in the seat across from Eamon and he looks as cool as ever: messy hair, but the kind of messy that looks deliberate. Autumn was in full effect, so Conor’s sporting an oversized black corduroy jacket with a faded Pink Floyd t-shirt underneath. Eamon wonders if Conor puts effort into looking so cool, or if it just came naturally to him.

“Your break?” Eamon asks.

“Pardon?”

“You said you were on a break,” he clarifies.

“Oh, yeah— I work at a record shop a few blocks away. It’s my lunch break.”

“Ah, so you’re not a full-time musician,” Eamon says, half teasing.

Conor smiles down at his coffee. “I wish I were a full-time musician. No, um, I work part-time at the shop. I also do odd jobs like walk dogs for people and do maintenance work in my apartment building. Nothing particularly fascinating. It pays the rent, ya know.”

“A record shop sounds interesting to me.”

“I suppose it sounds more interesting than it is,” Conor muses. “When I first applied, I imagined I’d hang around all day and suggest good music to people. But in reality it’s just a lot of re-shelving things and stamping price tags on records.”

Eamon nods and pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. Over the course of the past few weeks, he had imagined having a conversation with Conor so many times. Now that it was actually happening, he felt like an actor who’d forgotten all his lines he’d so meticulously studied.

“What are you studying for right now?” Conor asks.

“English literature. I’ve got a midterm essay due soon and I’m supposed to write about the books we’ve read so far. Unfortunately, they’ve all been shit.” Eamon taps his hand on the book in front of him, as if to say _this isn’t an exception_.

“Irish literature is much better,” Conor smiles and sips his coffee. “Joyce, Beckett, Wilde.”

“My professors all say that Wilde was practically English.” He’s pretty sure one of his professors said that at one point, anyway.

“That’s just because they can’t accept that a gay Irish man was writing better than any English writer.”

Eamon chuckles.

“What’s on your agenda for the day, then?” Conor asked.

“Probably gonna read until my eyes fall out of my head, I guess.”

Conor nods and takes a sip of his coffee. “You know, my brother’s in town this weekend. A bunch of his friends and my friends are throwing a party, get together, thing at my place. You should come ‘round if you get tired of reading.”

Eamon had never really been to a _party, get together, thing_ before, but he doesn’t want Conor to know that. “Yeah, sounds cool.” He hopes that his tone doesn’t betray how nervous he actually feels.

“Yeah? Cool, uh well I can give you my address—“ he gestures to one of Eamon’s pens, which Eamon hands over to him so he can scribble an address onto a spare sheet of paper. “It’s at 9:30.”

“Right.” Eamon says.

“I actually have to get back to work, but I’ll see you then?”

“Yeah, yeah, see you later, Conor.”

 _What the hell just happened_ , Eamon thinks.


	4. up where the world won't let us down

Eamon had changed his clothes more times than he’d like to admit before leaving his residence hall, worrying that Conor would find it weird that he had changed halfway through the day, then deciding that it wasn’t weird for him to change for a party, then wondering why on earth he cared so much about whether Conor would notice what he was wearing. 

Conor’s apartment sat several blocks outside the main part of the city, in an old brick building that was considerably more dilapidated than the two buildings on either side of it. When Eamon arrives there is a small group of people outside smoking and laughing loudly. Eamon had made sure to leave fashionably late so that he wouldn’t seem lame and as he made his way up the steps to Conor’s apartment, he could tell that the party was in full swing already. Loud rock music was pounding through the walls and partygoers were filtering in and out of the third-floor apartment and sitting around on the staircase to escape the noise.

Eamon wasn’t exactly sure what to imagine when Conor said party, but this was a _proper_ party. As he pushed through the door into the apartment his ears began to ring from the volume of the music. About thirty people were sardined into the relatively small apartment, lined up against the wall, squished onto the couch, tucked into the kitchen. Everyone was clearly a few drinks into the night already and having a great time, shouting and laughing over the loud music that permeated through the small space. 

Eamon was making his way through the tight crowd when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Conor, grinning, and holding a cheap beer in his hand. “You came!” Conor shouts over the music, shaking Eamon’s shoulder lightly before letting go. “I did,” Eamon replies. When Conor cups his hand around his ear, indicating that he didn’t hear him, Eamon moves closer and repeats himself, louder this time. 

Conor seems to take this as an invitation to move closer, now standing very close to Eamon, who was already touching backs with a stranger. “Can I get you somethin’ to drink?” 

“Uh, sure,” Eamon shouts. 

Conor nods and tugs at Eamon’s sleeve to lead him toward the kitchen. “You smoke?” 

Which is how Eamon ends up outside with Conor, sat on the stairs of the small fire escape attached to Conor’s bedroom window. The music from inside is muffled and distant and Eamon can hear the sounds of the city below. Although his knees are pressed up against Conor’s, he feels considerably less cramped than how he felt inside. 

“Big party,” Eamon says, accepting the lit joint Conor that offers to him. 

Conor nods and tilts his head back to blow out smoke. “I only know a handful of those people,” he admits, “most are friends of my brother or friends of friends.” Eamon wonders if any of the girls who frequent Conor’s performances are at the party. 

Eamon takes a hit and hands the joint back to Conor. “Is your brother out there somewhere?” 

“Yeah, somewhere. I think he might have gone outside to smoke.”

“Are you uh, close with your brother?” 

“Oh yeah,” Conor says, tapping the ash at the end of the joint over the railing. Eamon watches as they scatter down below, like a sinful snow. “He’s like, the reason I got into music. He still lives in Dublin, but he spends a lot of time out here visiting.” 

“That’s cool.”

“Do you have siblings?” Conor asks. 

“Nah, it’s just me and my mum.” 

A moment passes, and Eamon closes his eyes to listen deeply to the sounds around him. The night air is cool, but the way that leaves you feeling more alive instead of chilly. In the distance, he can hear cars whoosh down the street. Inside, the song changes and he hears people excitedly cheer. His head feels like it’s spinning, just slightly, the way that you feel after getting off a roller coaster and haven’t quite found your balance back on the earth yet. When he opens his eyes again and sees Conor in the dim light, gazing up at the sky, he thinks _I’d like very much to always remember this moment._

Eamon never really drank much, he smokes whenever it’s offered. The last party he’d been to was his cousin’s sixteenth birthday, and that mostly involved him watching a bunch of sixteen-year-olds get drunk. He’d never really had a group of friends in school, partially because he didn’t really relate to his classmates and partially because he didn’t have the time between studying and working and helping his mum out. He supposes that many of the typical experiences of his adolescence were stolen by poverty and the duties he assumed when his father left. Now, he felt, he could finally catch up, experience all the things he’d missed during secondary school. 

“Was it easy? Having just you and your mum around?” Conor asks. 

Eamon isn’t sure if it’s the weed or his desperation to be Conor’s friend, but the words seem to just fall out of his mouth: “Not really, honestly. My da’ left when I was about fourteen. He was an alcoholic, so he went away to deal with that and never came back, not that I wanted him to.” He leaves it vague, but Conor’s not stupid— with the unemployment in Dublin, it wasn’t rare for men to turn to alcohol to cope. And it wasn’t uncommon for the alcohol and stressors of the financial state to lead to outbursts of violence. “He left me and my mum to figure it all out on our own, and with only one income it was hard, y’know, for a while. But that’s how it was— how it still is in Dublin. Not enough jobs to go around and whatnot.” 

“I’m sorry, Eamon.” Conor says sympathetically. “Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.” 

“It’s fine.” Eamon insists. “What’re your parents like? How’d they react when you said you were moving here?” 

Conor makes a face halfway between grimacing and smiling. “I didn’t tell them I was moving here. I just… left.” 

Eamon raises his eyebrows. Conor laughs, sinking down on the cold metal fire escape, pushing his knees into Eamon’s. “Nothing weird. I um, I suppose I had a good relationship with my parents. They were strict, but not overwhelmingly so. They uh, separated about a year and a half ago. In all the chaos of them selling the house and moving to their own apartments, I just decided I’d had enough and that school wasn’t for me, so I decided to pack up my guitar and sail here.” 

“You didn’t finish school?” 

“No. Do you think that was dumb of me?” 

“No, I think that’s kind of badass.” He chuckles, and Conor looks at him and suddenly he’s laughing too. 

“Wow, I’m high,” Conor laughs, spilling forward so he’s laughing into his knees. Eamon’s not sure how they got here, how he got here, on a fire escape in London, so far from Dublin, laughing his ass off with someone he barely knows. 

Suddenly, there’s tapping on the windowsill and a man with long, brown hair pokes his head out. “There ya are,” he says. Conor looks up and grins stupidly, and Eamon briefly feels his chest inexplicably tighten. 

“Brendan, this is Eamon.” He puts his palm on Eamon’s knee and Eamon nods at Brendan. “Eamon, this is my brother Brendan.”

“Hey.” 

“Hello hello Eamon. You Irish?” 

“No, just my name is,” he jokes. This sends Conor into another fit of laughter. 

Brendan looks back and forth between the boys and chuckles. “A bunch of us are heading down the pub, you wanna join?” 

Conor looks at Eamon. Eamon shrugs.

“Let’s go,” Conor says. 


End file.
